The Last River by Todd Balf

Author:Todd Balf [Balf, Todd]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-87446-7
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2010-06-16T04:00:00+00:00

Danger is one thing, but danger plus extreme discomfort for long periods is quite another. Most people can put up with a bit of danger—it adds something to the challenge—but no one likes discomfort—or not for long, anyway.

—SIR EDMUND HILLARY

Pe, Tibet,

October 6

HAVING HUSTLED OUT OF THEIR BLUFF-TOP CAMP AND RETRIEVED their boats from the wooded shores where they ditched them yesterday afternoon, the river team is consumed by the unending task of organizing, condensing, and packing gear into waterproof dry bags for their journey. They don’t board their boats until 1:00 P.M., and after running the first rapid along the safe river-right line, the four again regroup near the eddy they shared yesterday. They’re delayed once more. This time the pause isn’t for a bracing team-wide reality check, but because a well-wishing local contingent is along the shore with a send-off basket of peachlike fruit. “Thoo jaychay,” says Tom, beaming a bright smile and chomping a big bite. Thank you.

None of them speaks Tibetan, but Tom is willing to wing it. The year before, on his and Wick’s scouting trip, he’d taken copious if almost illegible notes, writing down phonetically the names of porters they’d hired, useful phrases, and even the lyrics (and an English translation) of a traditional hymm about the Yarlung Tsangpo. Shoo Yarlung Tsangpo … O chay nay dintay ympam umpee ny yay samnang yongwee … Tom sang, his voice rising and falling in imitation of the swirling melody. The rough, garbled translation didn’t make much sense to anybody: “You like fast, don’t go … in my heart or mind a great request… come back.” Almost a sort of unrequited love sonnet, Tom imagined, the ode to the mythic river heroine said, “You have run away and I miss you.”

Not surprisingly, the destination of the visitors and their peculiar mode of transport are the subjects of some curiosity. Using a flurry of hand-waving and other simple sign language, the delegation is keen to know where they wish to go and how they’ll possibly live with the river. The appearance of a kayaker on the water—trunk visible, but lower half mysteriously disembodied—is a strange image to anyone unfamiliar with the sport. Visually, a paddler approximates some centaurlike creature—half man, half boat. Their already exotic form is even more puzzling given where they’re headed. They plan to follow the course of the river through the gorges, Tom explains. Some shake their heads vigorously, as if to say, no, it’s impossible. Others say nothing, wondering if theirs is some uniquely Western spiritual quest. Wick knew their intentions would be awfully hard to articulate, and as a result he’d asked Roger to clip images from magazines to show “what guys like us do.” The “bragbooks,” of which Harry’s team and Wick’s have copies, sport photographs of boaters portaging, running rapids, camping, and leaping off waterfalls. There are no albums with the boats, however, and besides they must get going. Tom politely winds things up and stows the fruit away. Kaalay shoo-ah, he says.

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